I’m Not Alone (‘Cause You’re Here With Me) 1/?
Title: I'm Not Alone ('Cause You're Here With Me) 1/?
Author:
mistykt
Pairings: Johnlock (pre-slash to slash)
Rating: PG (this part.)
Length: 1,649 words (in this part)
Warnings: Minor Character Death
Summary: John is faced with the unexpected passing of his sister, and Sherlock stands with him as he is forced to come to terms with death and the loneliness that follows.
A/N: Can also be read over at my AO3
“Harry’s dead.”
Odd, that. John’s sure that isn’t a proper response to ‘hello’, but that’s what the voice
had said. He had to have heard wrong. There was a time he had come to expect a call like this, but Harry’s been clean for years now, and he told the voice as much. It’s insistent and crying. No, not it, he
knows the voice. Clara. Clara’s crying. But it can’t be Clara because if it’s Clara, then-
“She’s dead, John. Hit and run. Dead on arrival, they said.”
He can barely hear her now, reality hitting him like a ton of bricks.
“Funeral,” she sobs. She’s crying harder. She’s asking him why he isn’t. He wonders how she expects him to cry when he can hardly breathe.
None of this makes any sense. John had awoken that morning to dawn spilling bright through the windows of 221B. He had padded downstairs and offered a greeting to Sherlock (that went ignored) who was texting furiously (on John’s phone), and had chosen to ignore his friend’s blatant lack of respect for his belongings in order to get at the tea. He was never in the mood for scolding until after his morning cuppa.
He flicked on the kettle and stood waiting at the counter. He turned his head sharply at the sound of his name being called from somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s perch on his chair. John’s hands shot up instinctively, just in time to catch his phone as it came flying at him. A look halfway between amused and annoyed flashed across his face, and Sherlock adopted a self-satisfied smirk in response. It took John just seconds longer to realize the phone in his hands was vibrating, waiting to be answered. He quickly hit the button and held it to his ear.
John, you’re not bailing on dinner again, is what he’d been expecting. They’d been having similar conversations for weeks. Bring that mad flatmate of yours if you’d like, she was supposed to say. I convinced Harry to go down to the shops with me last night just for you, so you’re coming.
Yes, he’d much rather be having that conversation just now.
John stares at the wall in front of him and barely registers that Clara’s shouting at him. “Why aren’t you answering me?” she cries, and maybe it’s lucky that he still can’t manage a sound because he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep from screaming that, this isn’t the morning I’m meant to have. Why won’t you tell me there’s been some horrible mistake?
The line cuts out not seconds later and John feels all the tension in his arm go slack. He lets his hand fall away from his ear, and it sways uselessly at his side, mobile threatening to fall through his trembling fingers. There are things to be done, but he can’t move. He needs to move. His sister has just died. He needs to tell- who is there to tell? Their parents passed years ago. He feels so unbearably alone.
Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and long, warm fingers gently sliding the phone from his own. He looks over to see Sherlock staring back at him, eyes wide, and expression careful. 'Thank god,' John thinks. He’s not so alone after all. He moves to take a step closer, needing the warmth of another body (life) that very moment, but as soon as he shifts his weight to take a step, he lets out a sharp cry as pain shoots through his right leg. What’s left of his strength (will) gives, and he’s caught round the shoulders by two strong, slender arms.
Sherlock leads John steadily to the sofa, and helps him sit. He darts away in the direction of the kitchen and returns just minutes later, shoving a warm cup of tea into John’s hands before seating himself on the table directly in front of him. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t touch. He just waits.
John’s mind is fuzzy as he stares down into the warm cup in his hands. He knows he should say something, but he sips his tea instead. It’s just how he likes it (of course it is). Just one sip, and he’s starting to feel human again. He remembers Sherlock (how does he keep forgetting?) and looks up. He expects Sherlock to be impatient with him, but all he reads on the other man’s face is genuine concern. It’s radiating off him in waves. John breathes it in.
“Thank you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. Sherlock’s brow furrows and he looks… miserable. Not the right thing to say, then.
Sherlock leans forward, and raises a hand to hover uncertainly above John’s still visibly trembling left hand. He waits for John’s shock addled mind to register his intentions and watches closely for any signs screaming not good before covering John’s hand with his own. He sits quietly for a moment, eyes alight and earnest, and asks, “What’s wrong?”
The gears in John’s mind started turning again thanks to the grounding presence of Sherlock’s hand on his. He turns his palm upward to allow himself to get a grip of his own, and holds on tight. 'This is whom he has to tell,' he thinks, 'He has to tell Sherlock.' John takes one final steadying breath, and opens his mouth to speak. The words (awful words) get caught in his throat, and all that makes it past his lips is a choked sob. His vision blurs, but he keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock, pleading.
Don’t make me say it.
Sherlock seems to understand and nods. “The first part is simple, you know it already,” he begins, gesturing to the phone where it lay on the dining table. “I had your mobile in my hands when the ringing began so I know from the caller ID the call came in from Clara. Clara calls and has you visibly pained in seconds- it’s about Harriet, then. Not back on the drugs, no. You’d be disappointed, frustrated, not- this,” he continues, grasping tighter to John’s shaking hand as if to clarify his unusual vagueness.
“The tremor in your hand, the pain in your leg, both indicators of an extreme emotional response made worse by the unexpectedness of the call. Obvious physical and emotional distress combined with the presence of shock symptoms means grieving. Grieving for Harriet. Your sister Harriet has died,” he concludes, for once not seeming pleased with himself in the slightest. In fact, it could be argued that he looked nearer to disgusted.
“Brilliant,” John rasps, “Amazing. Fantastic.”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, not knowing what the proper response should be. He is visibly touched by the praise, but there have been tears falling from John’s eyes since he had begun. John continues crying even after it’s through, but there’s a fragile smile on his lips and he’s honestly grateful. He got to tell someone, just not with words. Thankfully, wonderfully, he doesn’t always need words with Sherlock.
“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock offers, and there’s no doubt in John’s mind as to his sincerity.
They sit silently together for a while longer until John’s able to regain his composure. As his awareness returns, he looks down and sees their hands still clasped tightly to one another where they rest on his knee, and he can feel his tremor has slowly abated. At the moment, the pain in his leg is bearable, but he deems it best not to try his luck too soon. He then takes another look over at Sherlock who seems surprisingly content to let John set his own pace for once. He doesn’t push, or prompt, he just watches. John decides to use this rare opportunity to talk over his next steps. Sherlock has always seemed to find it helpful to talk to John when he has trouble working through something, and if that’s good enough for Sherlock Holmes, it’s good enough for John Watson.
“So, er,” he coughs, unused to his own voice, “I guess I won’t be available for the next few days.”
“To prepare for the funeral, obviously,” Sherlock says calmly.
“Right, so if Lestrade happens to find you a nice murder victim, I won’t be around to play doctor for you.”
“You are a doctor, not just simply playing at one like those idiots that work with Scotland Yard,” Sherlock smirks, “and of course we won’t be taking any cases this week.”
“We?” John blinks.
Sherlock fixes him with an exasperated look and says, “Yes, John. We. We will not be taking any cases this week.”
“Sherlock, you don’t have to do that. Look, I know- this,” John starts, gesturing to his damaged (pathetic) self, “isn’t really your area. I won’t be cross with you at all if you don’t want to get involved. I appreciate you being here for me, and I really can’t ask anything more of you.”
“I know you won’t ask because I know you, John. We are friends,” he asserts, calm and honest. “You won’t ask, and you shouldn’t have to. Harriet was there for you when I-“ Sherlock falters, “When I wasn’t. She got clean to take care of you. I owe you both at least this much. I want to help you with this, if you’ll have me.”
John stares dumbly at his friend (best friend), blinking hard to rid himself of the tears that had begun pooling in his eyes, and breaks into a wide smile despite it all. “I’d always rather have you then not,” he states, confidently.
Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to smile, just the barest upturn of his lips, and it’s one of the most honest John’s ever seen. It's one of those private smiles reserved just for him. Sherlock releases his hold on John’s now completely steady hand, and gives it one final pat as he says, “Me too, John.”